


Naming

by misplacedkisses



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, Gender Issues, Maeglin-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 21:30:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1580204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misplacedkisses/pseuds/misplacedkisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was her mother's daughter, and he is his father's son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naming

**Author's Note:**

> I hesitate to label Maeglin's gender issues here because it's imposed by outside forces, not born internally.

He does not remember how young she was when she first noticed. Her first memories are of Mother’s soft hands wiping tears from her face, dark hair falling in a cocoon around them, low sweet singing, their own world. Those days were spent yelling with child’s laughter dancing over the flowers, learning to work the loom in the fire light, curling in close to listen to tales of a princess in a land of never-fading light. Father was a phantom of an idea in her earliest memories, a shadow that kept Mother from answering her cries at night, a stern stranger that haunted the halls in the gray light of dawn.

As she grew older and her memories clearer, she saw more of him, saw the way Mother was keeping her from him. Mother would lead her out at midday, out to chase little animals where the woods were not so dense around their hall, and then he would come. Out of the darkness he loomed, walking swift along to the eaves of the house, stooping to lay hungry hands and hungry mouth on Mother. They disappeared within the house, and her young eyes were drawn off to the next small creature scurrying in the undergrowth. He departed as sudden as he came and Mother’s smiling face would reappear to ask what new adventures she had had. Other times, sleepy, she was drawn out by the low hum of voices and the clink of plates in the night by curiosity. Mother was there, scooping her up and bearing her back to her room before her shuffling feet had crossed the threshold and soft lullabies would drive that grim face from her mind as she drifted back to sleep.

Father entered into her life like winter and it was winter that drove him in. He hung around the edges of her life, the autumn chill, for years. As her sixth year waned, he took up residence in the shadows just outside the evening firelight, tension calming her play by the hearth. With the first snows, she grew to expect him in the halls, grew used to tiptoeing past his work rooms, grew used to speaking quietly in the house. As Father’s presence grew, Mother’s lessened. She was called away in the day and no longer had time for lullabies and princess tales at night. Mother had one smile for her, and another for father, she could not wear both at once.

And then, sudden as the season’s first blizzard, he was there, the phantom come to life. Her table manners were tested under the weight of his presence, her skill at needlepoint, her neatness and grace, her attention to books, her obeisance. Father’s judgment lay at the corners of his mouth, in a tightening or a slight downturn. She learned a silence in his presence, to avert her eyes, to be still, sparing in her movements. She never knew his approval. Winter turned to spring, and when he left once more in the summer, Mother had to teach her laughter again.

Father was a season, Mother a perennial. His chill leeched away Mother’s warmth and in the dark months she was colder for it. No longer could she play by the firelight, no longer meet Mother’s soft smile, Father demanded her attention. “Aredhel,” he would say, “Come, sit before me.” She gave a last smile, soft and private, and left her for Father, hovering at the edge of the circle of light. Each night, she refused to look, to watch them, the low hum of Mother’s voice indistinct but soothing, keeping her eyes from finding them.

As the seasons drew on, however, Mother more and more often drew her into Father’s attention. She was asked questions at the table, and brought along to sit of Mother’s chair before Father at night. She learned his voice as he prompted Mother and spoke of the dwarves. She learned his trade, that he was skilled in the making of weapons. His phantom form gained a weight, a solidness, a depth. He was not a stranger anymore.

The realization came slow upon her, that though he was no longer a stranger to her, she remained one in his eyes, an interloper. They slid past her, as if she were no more than the chair, the wall, not even a ghost at the table. He would not look at her, his eyes were only for Mother. As she grew though, she became harder to ignore. Mother’s hand tightened around hers as they came before Father, and he would hum, deep, disapproving. His mouth became a tight line, sharp, down-turned, in her presence.  
Still, she could close her eyes and it would only be Mother, hand forever carding through her hair. The days, the sunlight hours, those remained their own. Mother taught her to braid flowers in her hair; taught her the forbidden language, the one Father would not speak, the language of the Exiles; taught her to bend a bow, to mourn the little things that she fell; taught her to ride, to coax the horses with sweet words to her will; taught her to be a lady, still strong and wild.

Little by little, however, the cold shoulder of winter grew to outweigh the warm summer days. Mother’s laughter faded before Father’s frown, her smiles were stolen away. He demanded more and more of Mother’s attention, and she was left alone. He does not know when she first noticed, but he knows exactly when it became too much for her. The spring of her twelfth year, the days began to lengthen and Mother’s smile hid at the corner of her mouth like a promise.

It was the morning of the first real melt of the season and the rush water running over snow woke her before the dawn. A hush lay over the house, only the rush and drip of the melt breaking the silence; her footsteps fell quiet, like a secret, in the growing gray light of the halls. She found them at the back of the house, close, tender in a way she had never seen them before. Father’s sharp corners rounded Mother’s curves, his rough hands gentle upon her. They stood, watching the snow melt as they melted together. She padded closer, bare feet still sleep warmed on the cool wooden floor. Mother turned to her, smiling, and took her hand. For one moment, she belonged. Then Father let out a noise like a growl, deep in his throat, Mother gasped, her hand was dropped.

She turned, stumbling, could hardly see the way back to her room through her tears, could hardly hear the shouting that followed over her own sobs. She cried raggedly, ashamed of the sound, until her whole body was weak and every breath hurt. Her hands, frantic, shaking, found her best dress. She cut it up, and, still crying, bled through the seams as she sewed them, still crying as she worked.

She was dry-eyed, standing before the mirror when Mother came to find her. She could hear the shaky breaths echoing in the hall but still started at the soft knocks on her door. She whispered her assent, willing Mother to hear her quiet words so she did not have to face the cracking of her own voice. Mother came over, moving to card fingers through her hair.

“I am your son now.” She met Mother’s eyes in the mirror for a long moment.

The fingers paused, and then, “Yes,” Mother’s eyes well up again, “Yes, you will be Lomion now.”

 

Father had left, though the roads were still muddy, and did not return until they were cracking under the summer sun. He hardly saw Mother the first week, and he was left alone to learn how to put her away. She wanted to avert her eyes from Father’s haunts, he could not. She wanted to cry out, to wallow, to sing, he could not. She still wanted to hide behind Mother’s skirts and he needed to pick up Father’s cold mantle.

At the end of the week, he woke to find a neat stack of new clothing at the foot of the bed, rough work clothing, and Mother became a part of his life. She no longer spoke of a princess, nor of flowers, no more the needlework and or the songs. She began to tell him of young princes, of battles, of the strategies of war and diplomacy. Together they washed the gentleness, the sweetness of her youth from him.

She still insisted on brushing his hair, long slow strokes, taking her time. This time she began to plait it.

“Mother, what-”

“This is how my eldest brother would braid it, but with strands of gold. He always needed to tame his hair for his adventures, he had quite the mane.” She smiled at him in the mirror.

Her hands stilled, not halfway done, she looked away. “No, I do not think it suits you,” she slowly undid her work and pausing, “My cousin, he,” she picked up a new pattern, “he has great skill at the forge. Perhaps that will suit you better.”

When Father returned, his hands were turning rough, blisters beginning to give way to calluses, and strength was starting to shape his arms. He met Father’s eye and Father was the first to look away.

At first Father would not look, but he was no longer the chair, the wall, no more a ghost. Father’s eyes traced his outline, and he filled the space within. Father looked away, not through. He had become solid, present, visible, and Father could not stand it.  
It was high summer when Father broke. The morning sun filtered in though the cracks and only the clink of plates broke the silence.

“Maeglin,” he looked up, Father hummed, brow furrowing, their eyes met for a long moment, then Father raised his chin slightly and stood to leave.

“Pack, the road is long.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to be friends on tumblr, [this is me!](http://mammawidow.tumblr.com/)


End file.
